


come a little bit closer baby (get it on)

by blanchtt



Category: Carol (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, F/F, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-09 23:53:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15278994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanchtt/pseuds/blanchtt
Summary: There are her eyes, pale, and her fair hair, curls more limp than she cares for from the hard work she and Therese had put in over the course of the day, packing her things. There are her shoulders, as sharp as usual, and her breasts under the negligee, and then the tiny mirror does not allow for her to see much more.It is an entirely new Carol, Carol thinks, half in jest. Of course, she is the same person she’s always been. And she has come to like herself much more lately. The old Carol did not rush to undress, to bare herself, and certainly did not rush to bed, among countless other rare new habits.





	come a little bit closer baby (get it on)

**Author's Note:**

> Can be read as a stand alone, but fits into the timeline after the movie and just before Many And Beautiful Things.
> 
> I'm also open to prompts about any fandom I've blogged about. I'm krystalgoderitch on tumblr.

 

 

 

 

How far she’s come, Carol thinks to herself. And Therese, as well.

 

She removes her make-up and takes the washcloth Therese had given her, washes her face and pats it dry, applies crème. The sink is not the same sink as the sink in Waterloo and the mirror is not the same mirror as the mirror in Waterloo and she is not the same woman as she was in Waterloo, and so she reaches up with hands that do not falter—if they do shake now, it is only in eagerness—and unbuttons her blouse.

 

(There are days where Therese offers to help her undress, her touch peppered with kisses and lover’s words, neither of them making it to bed before someone has come pressed against something—the wall or the vanity or the kitchen table. And then there are days where Carol does it herself, where a pointed look and self-assured movements tell a wide-eyed Therese to sit and to  _look, but don’t touch_ , and their enjoyment is drawn out all night.)

 

The blouse she folds and places in her overnight bag, and then she draws off her slacks, and they follow the blouse. There had been a time where she had stopped at this moment, stared at herself in the mirror, steeling her nerves, almost certain of what laced Therese's words but disbelief dogging her step, too. It was all what she thought it was, wasn't it?  _I haven't thought of him all day_ , Therese had said, and followed it with a carefree smile, and by some stroke of luck and daring, her intuition and a kiss had confirmed it.  

 

Her slip and bra follow the rest of her clothing now, and Carol draws a negligee from her bag and slips it over her arms, her head, and lets it drop onto her body. The material is as cool and flowing as water, an ivory color, and Carol looks in the mirror briefly, lets her hands linger over her body.  

 

There are her eyes, pale, and her fair hair, curls more limp than she cares for from the hard work she and Therese had put in over the course of the day, packing her things. There are her shoulders, as sharp as usual, and her breasts under the negligee, and then the tiny mirror does not allow for her to see much more. 

 

It is an entirely new Carol, Carol thinks, half in jest. Of course, she is the same person she’s always been. And she has come to like herself much more lately. The old Carol did not rush to undress, to bare herself, and certainly did not rush to bed, among countless other rare new habits.

 

Carol turns, and with the push of a foot moves her bag aside so that it won’t be stepped on in case of any late-night visits, and exits the bathroom, flicks the light off after herself, finds her way down the darkened hall to Therese’s room.

 

(She's come to like Therese's little apartment, though she won't miss it, and really it's only because of Therese. There are the framed photographs on the walls, and things arranged as Therese likes, and the people Therese invites over sometimes, and it all gives Carol a glimpse of what goes on behind Therese's quiet demeanor.

 

Therese had also shown her how she'd used her bathroom as a dark room once, filling a pan with something and turning off all the lights save a red one, and Carol had watched a picture of a skyscraper, of Central Park, of Rindy all seemingly appear on the film as if from out of nowhere.)

 

Carol reaches Therese's room and pauses in the doorway, apparently quiet enough—or Therese is merely too absorbed—for her appearance to have been noticed.

 

There is only the bed and the empty nightstand and the light of the bedside table left in Therese's room, and Therese is, as usual, to be found reading. Her belongings, Carol knows, are packed away, their doing, the boxes stacked in the living room ready to be carted off tomorrow and the furniture pushed out into the hall for Danny and a few of her other male friends to more easy take away.

  

It is late summer, their last night in Therese’s apartment before Therese joins her at Madison Avenue, a day that at times Carol had imagined would never come. The window is open, Carol can hear despite the half-drawn curtains, and the room arguably cooler than it was earlier in the day—her negligee is not only enticing, but practical, too. With a shift of weight, Carol moves to lean against the doorpost, shoulder-first, and crosses her arms.

 

Therese, who had once been so uncertain as to take the twin bed across the room after they’d made love, sits on top of the sheets, pajama pants rolled up and cuffed at the ends, shirt unbuttoned and slightly open. It makes Carol’s heart beat quicker, out of a shameless mixture of lust and love. She’ll never understand these new fashion trends, she can admit, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t enjoy them.

 

(She thinks of Waterloo and Therese under her and of brushing aside her robe, of seeing Therese for the first time, of Therese arching up to kiss her, to participate and reciprocate, and of Therese between her own thighs after, movements surprisingly decisive.)

 

She watches Therese raise her head from her novel, her appreciative gaze perhaps heavy enough now to be tangible, and Carol pushes away from the doorframe. It takes only a few steps to cross the room, in which Therese places her marker in her book and deposits it on the nightstand, and then scoots closer to the wall.

 

Carol settles on a sliver of empty space on Therese’s twin bed, and then lies in a way to prop herself up on the pillows, head propped on an elbow. Her legs she crosses at the ankle, tucked close enough to her body for the hem of her negligee to rise and expose a scandalous amount of thigh, and lets her right hand fall where it may, which ends up resting lightly on her hip. Therese, for her part, sits with her back to the headboard, knees drawn up to her chest and arms looped around them, fingers of one hand circled loosely around her other wrist. 

 

It obscures her view, and Carol remembers her manners, meets Therese’s eyes and is first to break the silence.

 

“How do you feel?”

 

“About moving?” Therese asks, and then smiles. Whenever she does so, Carol finds, it’s hard not to follow suite, and she mirrors it back easily—six months later, and she’s still as smitten as a schoolgirl, which Abby teases her  _endlessly_ about. “Excited,” Therese says, and then shrugs. “Although I’m sure tomorrow afternoon all I’ll be is sore.”

 

Carol lets out a small laugh in agreement. Therese had turned down her offer to hire a moving company, preferring to box things herself. Which meant that tomorrow they’d have to be up on time to let Danny and a few of his friends in to help move the bigger items of furniture, something that had always proved difficult for the both of them.

 

“Luckily you’ve got some men to help you with that,” Carol remarks, and reaches up to run a hand through her curls thoughtfully.

 

It is an easy, everyday gesture—fingers sift through one golden lock, tuck it back into place behind her ear, hand returning to its place on her hip. She's not even  _trying_.  But something about it in the small space has Therese tilt her head, following the motion, and Carol feels it, that same anticipation she so often feels in the moments right before they kiss. 

 

She understands because with Therese it is the same, little innocuous things that spark an altogether different mood, quietly and suddenly.

 

They are much too far apart, Carol decides, and shifts, edges closer, enough so that her body touches the side of Therese’s thigh. It is closeness that she revels in now, little touches worth more than diamonds, the realization that after years and years she is here, in bed, with the woman she loves. “Lord knows I don’t move my own things, down at the shop.”

 

At that, Therese lets out a little laugh, and moves, arms and legs unfurling—Carol accommodates, and Therese’s arm rests around her shoulder. It makes it easy for Carol to close that last breadth of space between them, to lay her head at the crook of Therese’s neck and shoulder, and let her body press up against her, to move her hand from her hip to Therese’s stomach. More often than not, Therese tends to fall asleep on her. But the change is nice, Carol decides, and daringly she reaches up, cups a bared breast, lets her thumb trail over the nipple slowly.

 

(Old Carol did not touch and when she thought of touch she did not do so without calculating and finally when she did touch it ruined everything, every time.

 

Now, there is fucking against the wall and making love in their bed and everything in between and sometimes Carol thinks her heart might burst, and sometimes in the middle of folding laundry at home or attending one of Therese’s friend’s parties it overwhelms her, and the odd few tears always alarm Therese, has her asking what’s wrong, and so she says nothing and waves it away and is smiling soon enough, because Therese understands, yes, and has lived her own life, but not Carol’s.)

 

New Carol touches, and feels Therese tilt her head against hers. 

 

In the stillness, Carol breathes in the scent of her, closes her eyes and thinks there is nowhere else she'd rather be, and feels Therese's fingers play with the curls at the nape of her neck.

 

“And you?” Therese asks, and Carol remembers their conversation. 

 

“I can’t wait,” Carol says. Regarding that, she has no desire to play coy—in fact, she'd all but left her dignity about it at the Ritz, hope shattered after tea and coffee. The following summer months spent trekking around New York City to visit Therese had not been ideal, but then she was hardly in a place to ask for more and had accepted it half-joking as a sort of penance. And she could hardly blame the other woman for wanting to retain a modicum of independence, now that she'd finally tasted it herself.

 

Carol draws herself up, away from Therese and introspection, feels Therese’s arm fall away from her, and in the limited room they have moves to straddle Therese’s left thigh. The motion is followed by a wide-eyed blink from Therese before she breathes out slowly, and Carol lets her weight down slowly, feels Therese’s thigh press between her own, meeting her in understanding. Therese is a slim little thing, but Carol’s learned not to discount the strength that comes from sheer will and sheer want. 

 

She watches Therese's reserved but eager look, the steady rise and fall of her chest which gives her away only because Carol knows her now, and she reaches out, touches Therese’s sternum, palms flat, and tilts her head as if in thought. There is a part of Therese that is still an enigma, guarded not against her in particular but simply guarded, and it pleases Carol to no end to slip past that guard, when Therese lets her. And so she arches closer, body nearly touching Therese's, and slides her fingertips and palms across elegant collarbones, across slim shoulders, until she feels the soft fabric of Therese's pajama shirt on the back of her hands, and keeps going, diving, until her hands have slipped the shirt off of Therese entirely.

 

She leans back just enough for Therese to have room to sit up, to work the shirt off her arms and leave it to fall somewhere, and Carol drinks in the sight, a pang of need striking her as Therese meets her eyes, as Therese brings her arms around her, rests them around her waist—unmarred skin, to touch as it pleases them both, pertness, the play of muscle and shadow in the faint light.

 

She never looked like that, Carol knows. It’s impossible.

 

Therese’s eyes are heavy lidded, promising movement soon, a kiss as soon as she's drunk in her fill of looking at her. But Carol reaches behind herself, takes Therese's wrists light in her grasp and guides her hands, urges her to rest them on her thighs instead as Carol leans forward, drops a kiss to her breast, and then thinks twice, bows her head back down to take a nipple into her mouth.

 

To her great surprise, she had found from the start that Therese was not a quiet lover, nor one to passively receive, nor one to shy away from keeping the lights on. She thinks of Therese wanting to  _see_   her and feels her heart swell just as it did that night. A sign of the times, maybe—though more likely just Therese.

 

One of Therese's hands rests on her back, and the other cups the nape of her neck, urging her closer, and so Carol closes her eyes, relaxes, and suckles languidly, working lips and tongue against the peaked bud slowly, haphazardly lets her right hand caress the breast she is not currently admiring. Therese’s breathing picks up, a beat too fast until finally Carol is able to coax a moan and a shudder from her—a stuttered breath, and then a short, high note, repeated sporadically as Carol continues.  

 

There are many things she loves about Therese's body. About Therese in general, of course, but to be vulgar, well—after spending so long denying herself, Therese's tongue, in any respect. Her breasts, and how she responds when she lavishes attention on them, denied too her own sexuality for lack of understanding. Her thighs, utterly kissable, and all the more beautiful when she grasps them to her, holding Therese through post-orgasmic shudders. It amazes her how consistently Therese makes her wet which, Carol thinks a bit proudly, she must surely feel now.

 

Carol moves from one breast to the other at some point, nuzzling her way to it, and takes that peak into her mouth too, taste the scent of Therese, so familiar, and a hint of salt from the day. Her thumb and forefinger play with the slick nipple, just enough rolling pressure to pass as a poor mimic of her mouth, and Therese's fingers grasp at her hair, her body arching up and against her.

 

And then she is aware suddenly of Therese’s hands slipping up her thighs, blindly—and Carol feels an exploratory tug at the negligee, and understands, and sits back.

 

As easily as it had gone on it, it’s removed. Therese watches her with dark eyes now, a direction clear to her movements, and Carol closes her eyes as Therese takes the laced edge of the negligee and the fabric makes it journey up and off, guided by steady hands that pace themselves as if opening a present slowly to savor it—over her stomach, her breasts, her shoulders, and more carefully still over her head once she’s raised her arms, and then lowers them, opens her eyes again and shakes a curl out of her field of vision to find Therese watching her, negligee held loosely in her left hand, lips parted in want.

 

It’s easy to tease when clothed, but now the tables are turned, and tonight there are her breasts and her stomach and her thighs offered up, and Therese is the one whose gaze trail down and up and down again over her body, slowly, and Carol almost turns her face away, overwhelmed, but Therese sits up a bit, and there is Therese’s hand on the small of her back to keep her steady, and Carol is reminded suddenly of Therese’s thighs between her own as Therese presses up, and a frisson of need almost has Carol moving against her, except that Therese’s lips are on her neck, her free hand on her breast, caressing, and Carol tilts her head back and thinks she could come right now with barely a touch.

 

“Carol,” Therese murmurs, and there is a scrape of teeth, light before she it turns into a kiss and then with some pressure into what will surely be a hickey tomorrow, and Carol gives up, steadies herself against the bed and grinds down on the thigh between her own, the need to do so overwhelming, and finds a little upset noise come from her own mouth because the negligee is gone, yes, but they haven’t thought—can they be blamed?—to pause long enough to remove anything else.  

 

Therese lets out a little breath of laughter, and then hands tug at delicate lace, and with a few movements the panties end up on the floor where they belong, along with Therese’s pajama pants and her own panties, and with hands on Therese's shoulders Carol pushes Therese down, onto her back, and settles along the length of her, hip to hip and breast to breast. Another new habit of new Carol, who she finds is an addict for it. 

 

Therese’s hands clutch at her hips, and Carol feels a flutter of orgasm already, building, because things are always this easy with Therese and she's wet enough for Therese to know that, and especially as Therese moves against her, as her thigh tenses and grinds  _up_ , she must have moved and braced her foot against the bed because the pressure doesn't let up, and Carol uses her grip on Therese's shoulders and grinds down to meet her.

 

Her hair's fallen into her eyes again, and Carol flicks her head, tries to move a limp wave-that-used-to-be-a-curl, but doesn't succeed. The window is open, yes, but she's warm and so is Therese and there are more nights than not that end with them both exhausted and damp from exertion, which Carol had never thought she could find remotely attractive. And yet here they are. 

 

She hears her own breath in her ears, harsh and unladylike, and ignores it, focuses on the pointed movement of her hips, of the delightful burn in her thighs and stomach of muscles moving in synchrony, with purpose, the tightness of something ready to uncoil within herself that urges her on, and of Therese's thigh under her growing slick with her own arousal.

 

She likes new Carol very much, actually. New Carol is the same, bold and daring and creative, yes, but  _unafraid_  now. New Carol gets off on her lover's thigh and steals kisses in the car, and new Carol thinks  _this_  is what everyone else was talking about, and new Carol understands now.

 

She dares a glance at Therese under her, intending for it to be enticing, smoldering, but Therese's brows are furrowed in that serious way they do when she's really thinking about something, her gaze falling somewhere between their two bodies, occupied, and then Therese's hands are no longer on her hips but on her ass, and Therese is pushing her down too every time her thigh grinds up and that's really all Carol needs. 

 

She closes her eyes as she hears her own breath quicken, bows her head and pushes against Therese's shoulder, grasps at Therese in a way that's probably going to leave little half-moon marks, and feels a surprisingly intense orgasm rush over her like a wave, the kind that seems always to well up from deep within her and catch her off-guard, leaving her shaking like a leaf. 

 

Carol breathes out hard, feels Therese go slack under her now that she's come. The mood, s so desperately heartbeats ago, seeps away, and Carol tilts her head to the side, feels Therese kiss her cheek and arms come around her shoulders, holding her close despite the extra weight. They stay together long enough for Carol's breath to even out, and when she opens her eyes finds Therese watching her. 

 

"God damn," Carol says shakily, and Therese lets out an amused sound, raises a hand and reaches out to urge Carol's errant lock behind her ear. Had there really been a time, Carol thinks almost in embarrassment, when she had told Therese that sex didn't matter, that it was routine, that you could learn to live through it. 

 

(And what kind of mother, she thinks angrily, the thought flicking through her mind, would she be if she were to peddle the same sort of information to her daughter at the appropriate point in her life? It's different for  _us_ , she'd thought back then, but was it really?)

 

"You're telling me," Therese agrees, and Carol lets go of her, pushes against the bed, sits up, still straddling her. Her thighs tremble still, but at least she's not pressing down on Therese as much.

 

Carol breathes deep, knows she looks a mess and hardly cares—new Carol is shocking in that respect, since even with Abby it had never reached such a level of passionate lovemaking. But enough thought, Carol decides, because Therese herself is wet, slick against Carol's own thigh, and she’s never been one to let an orgasm go unreciprocated. But Therese raises a hand, runs her palm up the inside of Carol's thigh thoughtfully.

 

“Can I?” Therese asks, and fingertips brush her clit lazily, and Carol feels her hips jerk forward of their own accord, half-eager, but too soon. Therese strokes softly in a slow come hither movement, and Carol feels the fluttering come back, but if Therese wants to keep touching her then there is somewhere else she’d like her fingers, and so she reaches down, grasps Therese's wrist lightly and urges her lower. 

 

Understanding, Therese sits up once again, and that heavy-lidded, wonderous look is back, along with a hand at the small of her back, and Carol finders herself shivering in anticipation, and raises her arms to loop them around Therese's shoulders. 

 

Therese's fingers find their way slowly and unassumingly, caressing labia, and at the same time pressing her mouth to Carol’s neck and resuming her work of leaving a hickey. And now it is Carol's turn to run her fingers through Therese's hair as Therese’s finger finally brush against her, seeking gently, and then sink in, and to let out a breathless groan and clutch her close.

 

Carol breathes in and lets it out, a pleasurable sigh, feels Therese nip at her throat and flexes fingers against Therese's shoulder, and rocks against her. Therese is the picture of politesse, and though it is pleasurable it is not enough.  "Another," Carol asks, though it comes out as a pant, and she feels Therese nods against her cheek before the finger is withdrawn, and then another finger joins the first, and Carol closes her eyes at the fullness of them, at the intimacy as Therese murmurs something she does not catch.

 

She moves first, rocking her hips, and Therese follows her, lets her set the rhythm—slow but steady strokes, the kind that allow Carol to let go of her grip on Therese's poor shoulders. Her hands she slides up Therese’s neck to cup her jaw and pull her toward her and kiss her instead, and Therese follows her suggestion eagerly.

 

Therese had been a quick study, once she had understood. Or perhaps this time, Carol suspects, she can chalk it up to the nature of the female sex. In Waterloo Therese had seemed to know, despite a lack of experience, almost exactly how their bodies should fit together, and what was pleasurable and what was not, and since their first kiss there had not been a single moment where Carol had not enjoyed herself.

 

Therese does not leave her wanting in any aspect. Therese parts her lips, and Carol feels the brush of tongue against her own, fleeting, before Therese kisses her again, more softly and with a sigh of her own, and to be here, now, doing this, makes Carol’s heart swell once more. She almost stops moving, absorbed in the softness of Therese's lips against hers, of Therese's little breaths, breaking away coyly from the kiss to tease and then returning, of the taste of her, of the barest brush of teeth against her lip before nipping back in return, and of pauses and breaks, of nothing being said in the silence because the brush of a thumb against a cheek and eyes meeting through lashes says it all. 

 

It ebbs and flows, building and receding and building again, all the time in the world to do so, until eventually Carol grinds down, the broad part of Therese's palm pressingly insistently against her clit, and Therese’s hand on the small of her back holds her close, and Therese curls her fingers and if Carol had been wet before she is soaked now, and with the push of her palm Therese has her shaking once more, eyes closed against a softer sort of wave that leaves her breathless.

 

Therese knows her well enough to give her a moment, to ease away in every aspect. Therese’s thigh supports her once again, and Carol is content to simply enjoy the closeness of the moment. The serious look to Therese is gone now and in its place is a small, giddy smile, a mixture of pride and awe that Carol completely understands. It’s only when Carol feels herself stop trembling—something Therese no doubt feels as well—that Therese withdraws her fingers, that Carol ungracefully manages to get a trembling leg over Therese’s, and sinks down onto her back amongst the pillows and covers.

 

She watches as Therese does the same, as Therese settles on her side with her head propped on an elbow now, watching her, and despite the fact that she’s come twice so close together, Carol feels need rise, full and heady, and new Carol knows exactly what she wants because the bed is small and they are close but they can be much, much closer.

 

Her apartment is a house and not a home, but tomorrow it will be, finally, and she knows new Carol can brave anything beyond the doors now because she is unafraid.

 

She touches Therese’s thigh, a silent question, and there is a nod, and new and daring Carol urges Therese up and above her, steadies her thighs with her hands as Therese no doubt holds onto the headboard of the bed, and touches her tongue to her, delighting.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
